


Holmes & Watson

by myawritesthings



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Doctor John Watson, Gen, Hurt John Watson, John Watson's Blog, POV John Watson, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock Holmes Loves John Watson, Sherlock is a Brat
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:48:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28201137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myawritesthings/pseuds/myawritesthings
Summary: A series of short stories, drabbles, and one-shots featuring the one and only Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. They are usually from John's POV but I'll lean into Sherlock's mind once in awhile. I seem to really like stories where Sherlock is wrong about something and John gets to point it out.Some of these stories are based on slightly true situations or funny dreams I've had in real life. I try to be very in canon-character for both the BBC show and a little hint of the books.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson
Kudos: 8





	Holmes & Watson

* * *

“Are we going to hail a horse and carriage?” I asked sarcastically, staring out at the desolate moor that lay before us. The air was chilly, and I shivered.

“Nonsense,” Sherlock replied, glancing at me critically as he pulled on his leather gloves. “We’re walking.” 

“Walking, yes, of course, naturally,” I repeated dully, non-too thrilled about it. If he had only warned me, instead of kidnapping me in a cabbie before I had reached Baker St, I would have put on boots and a thicker jacket. At this point, the denim trousers, runners, and blazer would have to do. No coat. 

“You may go on back to that inn,” Sherlock leaned down to the cabbie’s window, pulling out a few bills to pay him. “And return to this point in precisely forty minutes.”

“Why not thirty-five,” I said under my breath. “Or forty-two? Or forty-four?”

The cabbie looked at him incredulously. “You want me to leave you ‘ere?”

“That’s right. We’re conducting private business.”

The cabbie looked a little terrified. “You _do_ know, sir, that there was a murder out ‘ere? The bus’ness is nice, an’ all, but I don’t want my customers gettin’ gutted while they wait.”

Sherlock handed him a few more bills. “Just do what I ask.”

“All right, all right, forty minutes then,” he tapped the dashboard clock, put the cab in reverse, and soon disappeared into the shroud of mist.

The hillsides lay spread out on either side of the dirt road, roving and small, with God-knows-what nestled in their miniature valleys. The clouds were white and low, threatening to snow or rain. A bank of white mist lay on the horizon line, preventing any scene-scape except what was in range of a (roughly) five mile radius. 

“And why didn’t you bother to tell me there was a murder out here?” I asked dryly. 

“Haven’t you been reading the paper this morning?” Sherlock asked sharply. “Didn’t you listen to anything I said on the way?”

“You said we were going to investigate for shoe-prints!”

“It is only natural that those shoe-prints could lead us to a murder weapon or where the murderer is hiding,” Sherlock said defensively.

“I thought it was a missing person,” I mumbled.

“Well—you’re right about that. The murderer _is_ missing, but according to the chief investigator of this area, fled town.”

“If we’re out of London’s limits, why are we here?”

“The chief investigator is a friend of Lestrade’s. We were recommended.”

“Oh, ‘we’ were?”

“Well—I was. You were implied.”

“Ha,” I snapped. “And if the investigator thinks the murderer fled the area, then why…”

“My belief is that he never left the moor.”

“So he’s out there somewhere?”

“Hopefully.”

“ _Hopefully,_ ” I mocked. “If we’re going to die today, out here, Sherlock—I hope you die first, so that I may have a few seconds of holding you personally responsible before I die as well.”

Sherlock only found my irritation vaguely amusing, and chuckled in response. He stepped off the road and began walking regally through the squelching grass, hands in his pockets and collar turned up obnoxiously. Like an annoyed terrier with a forgetful master, I began plodding after him. I wondered if he hadn’t passed me on the street if he would have come out here anyway, alone, looking for a murderer, with the nearest person in a cab forty minutes away. The thought made me frown.

* * *

We soon lost sight of the road, coming over the broad of a hill, and descending its steep, rolling side. As we began to ascend the opposite side, after sloshing through a large puddle turning into a creek, and Sherlock began to inform me of our case.

“The murder took place yesterday at 8:26 a.m.,” Sherlock stated briskly, “The victim was 53-year-old Jessica Marple, who was walking her dog on the moor. The property line is just here. When her dog returned without her, to the farm-house in which they live, her husband went searching for her. He found her body—down there, and then phoned the police.” Sherlock pointed down the side of the hill, where the ground flattened for several meters. Running through the center of the small, muddy plain was a creek. 

“A blunt blow to the head, three times in succession, died within minutes,” Sherlock said absently. I always wondered if sympathy was as foreign to him as it seemed to be. 

“And the husband didn’t do it?” I asked.

“He was at home, caring for his ailing mother, who lives with them. They were together all morning. He never left the house.”

“Did his mother lie?”

“No, there was proof.”

“What kind of proof?”

“He made a phone call to her doctor at 8:27 am, who corroborated this, he let the dog in at precisely 8:40 a.m. when he signed for a delivery, a neighbor spotted him in the yard prior to that approximately 8:35 am—satisfied?”

“I suppose so. It just seems odd that someone would be out in a wasteland like this.”

“So do I,” Sherlock skidded in some mud, but caught himself and pretended it didn’t happen. He reached the edge of the creek, and glanced down into it. 

The creek, which I’m sure was usually peaceful and gray, was flooded with light brown water, about twenty feet across. An old beached log placed across it to serve as a footbridge. The current was fast, and old branches and trash came barreling through on the surface, scraping the bottom of the trunk-bridge. 

On the left, it continued in a snake-shaped, wandering line towards the property of the murder victim. On the right, it continued on through the moor till it disappeared in a brushy crevice. The trunk had been sawn in half, so that the flatter side faced upwards, and the curve of the bark kept it secured on the banks. Despite the signs of it having never moved in—say—a few years, the look of it still made me a little nervous. 

“This does not look safe,” I muttered, rubbing my hands together in the cold. 

“Of course it’s not,” Sherlock replied, “But if you’ll notice the grass grown around the edges and the indications of its daily use by the farmers—”

“It hasn’t been moved in years, I noticed,” I said off-hand.

Sherlock glanced at me in pleasant surprise. “Good. Yes—indeed. You’re no longer just noticing things, John, you’re observing them!” He lithely crossed over the bridge, his long and thin figure looking like a marionette without strings.

I stepped up onto the log and looked down the bank, a good six feet or so, into the torrential creek. “Melting snows somewhere,” I remarked, crossing and hopping off the end of the log. “I wonder how deep it is.”

“No matter,” Sherlock moved on. “So this is where the body lay…” he pointed in a marked area. A square of string lined the ground, small yellow flags on stakes in the corners. The police already come and gone, taking all the prints, marks, and photographs they could. 

I unconsciously stepped backwards. “Any stains or prints they didn’t see?”

Sherlock’s head twisted this way and that, as he hunched over and examined the ground. “One print here that wasn’t in their developed crime scene photographs…”

“Type of shoe?”

“When I know, I will tell you,” Sherlock pointed to a small indentation on the ground.

Sherlock began to follow it up the hill, a hound-dog on a hunt. For some reason, I stayed behind, feeling a keen interest in the bits of torn turf. Was this because of the weight of her falling body? Did she fight off her assailant? How was her poor husband coping with this? What kind of motive would a person have for killing an innocent woman walking her dog?

“WATSON!” Sherlock rarely barked my last name, unless a few usages of “John” hadn’t been loud enough for me to hear. I snapped to, and followed him across the flatness of the green, and then began up the steady incline. 

His head popped up on the other side. “You are my blogger, are you not?”

“Hmph, I’d like to think so,” I huffed.

“Then do hurry up, I’ve got _facts_ to share, and I _do_ hope you’ll represent them accordingly, instead of dwelling on the danger of it.”

I tried not to feel an old thrill about the word _danger,_ recalling the adrenaline of active duty, but I still hoped we wouldn’t run into a murderer.

* * *

Time dragged on and on. I followed him around as he ranted and raved to himself. He formed one hypothesis, only to forget it entirely and make a new one—simply because of a scuff mark on a rock, a small toe-print from a shoe, and the tiniest stub of a cigarette—three factual pieces of evidence that he entreated me to make note of. 

Two of which turned out to be unrelated, the only clue that boggled him was the minimalist shoe print. It was times like these that I felt the most useless. Telling the time from the rocks and trees was certainly not my strong point. 

Give me an injured body, and I can not only perform to the best of my intelligence, but help Sherlock in a way that would render _him_ useless. He’s remarkably helpless when it comes to applying first aid, knowing only the basics, and needs me to take charge then. 

But looking at the frozen grass after an injury and death has already occurred? Not exactly inspiring my highest qualities. 

“If you can’t figure out whatever it is you are trying to figure out, shall I still relate these facts in my blog?” I asked, after a half-hour of exhausted, critical observation. 

“Do I detect frustration?” Sherlock said, amused. 

“I detect hypothermia,” I replied. By this time, our breath was emerging in puffy white clouds, the tips of our noses were bright pink, and me—who had no gloves, mind you—was beginning to feel numb nothingness instead of vital extremities. 

“Oh, yes,” Sherlock said distractedly. “Right. It’s cold, isn’t it?”

“Just,” I muttered.

“Right. Well, it’s about time to meet the cabbie. But I am not through here. I still haven’t examined…”

“Examined WHAT? There’s nothing to examine!”

“Oh yes, there is. Just down the hill, to our right, there’s another small creek, several small trees, and a large grouping of boulders. What better place to conceal something?”

“Oh, like a murderer?” I said with false enthusiasm.

“Why YES, John, a _murderer!_ ” Sherlock replied with the same enthusiasm, trying to imitate the higher pitch of my voice. 

“I’ll meet the cabbie and tell him to wait for you,” I said shortly, whirling and walking back the direction we had come. 

“John, don’t be cross with me!”

“I won’t be cross when I can feel my limbs again,” I called back, sighing. “Meet me back there in fifteen minutes. If you don’t, I am going to assume the worst.”

“You strike a hard bargain,” growled Sherlock, beginning to march the other way, headed towards the outcroppings of brush and rocks. 

Obviously having an off-day (only Lestrade was under the false impression that our work together was always compatible) I felt no regret in leaving Sherlock to do his work alone for a time. He’s been doing it alone for years—a few minutes would not deprive him of a second opinion completely… only, to my small satisfaction, remind him why he wanted me around in the first place. 

* * *

_Over hill, and dale…_ I struggled through the muds again, up and down the two hills we’d previously searched—careful to avoid the circular prints we looked at earlier—and finally descended into the small plain, and approached the side of the creek. 

The creek had widened during our investigations, swollen to the point of overflowing its banks. The puddles around the flats had formed miniscule ponds, which clustered together and fell in waterfalls over the edges and into the creek. It was one, large, marshland, where land and water were the same.

The current was faster and as brown as ever, plummeting downstream with a wintery roar of melting landslides somewhere farther up, possibly in the woods or near the construction of the farmland drainage systems miles away.

Water sloshed up to my ankles, soaking through the shoes and socks. I grimaced and took each step carefully, approaching the edge of the log to cross the creek—a small river now, thanks to nature’s odd little habit of making things bigger and less predictable. 

I stepped up on the log, and frowned when it did not feel as secure as before. I was sure it was just my imagination. A silly part of me believed that if Sherlock knew it hadn’t been moved in several years, it had surely seen flooding worse than this, and I was perfectly safe.

I took another step, and the other end of the log slowly rose up from its place on the bank. The mud had softened, and my weight loosened its stability, until it was out of its foundation. Before I could think, the log lightly rolled over.

For only a panicked second of waving my arms to regain balance, I was plunged into the creek—what I thought—would be about waist-deep and extremely unpleasant.

I was shocked to the core when the water engulfed me completely, closing over my head like the lid of a coffin.

And with that, it suddenly occurred to me... from nowhere, really... There was someone else on the moor that day, a stranger, someone that wasn't examined. I had to tell Sherlock.

I didn't try and work against the current; it would be useless. Instead I just tried to direct my body towards the shore, the side where the cabbie would be waiting. Out of nowhere, there was another branch in the water, half-sunken, with its base entangled in the blackberry vines along the bank. I curled my numb fingers around the branch, hoping the visual would be enough to make up for what I wasn't feeling.

I slowly began to inch my hands up the branch, taking me closer and closer to land. When I was close enough, I buried one fist in the grass, found the ground with my feet—(hmm, almost five-and-a-half feet deep just off the edge, how's _that_ for 'shallows'?)—and then, I was leaning over the edge.

I crawled up the rest of the way and stood very, very slowly, my legs and arms feeling weak. My body shuddered in reply, the cold settling all around and the heat rushing away from my heart to warm the arms and legs. I took a few test steps.

I can't believe it took a foolish plunge in dirty ditch water to have a brilliant theory.

 _I'll show him,_ I thought, shivering victoriously.

I began to trudge, slowly and deliberately, parallel to the wide, rushing creek. I came around the bend to find the flat, marshy area.

And there was the log, tipped onto the wrong side. _I need to get to the cabbie and tell him we'll be late,_ I thought. _But Sherlock still needs to cross the creek._

The right thing to do for myself, of course, would be to get to the road quickly, find the cabbie, tell him to turn up the heat at gradual increments and jump inside the automobile. But my mind was jumbled with the freezing temperature.

My only thought was— _obviously, I'll have to wait here, and make sure Sherlock crosses the log safely. Can't have the same thing happen to him, now, can we?_

My brain began to compile a list of things I was certain of at this moment. 

_I’m a doctor. I am in danger of hypothermia. Water conducts heat away from the body 26 times faster than the air… so it’s a good thing I’m out of the water, at least. I should be removing wet clothes and put something dry around my neck and chest, at least… have to prevent the afterdrop, so I should probably lie down. Lying down is good. Immersion hypothermia patients are supposed to be kept horizontal._

_I can feel the ground sucking the last of my body heat away… how bloody rude. Doesn’t it know I’m a DOCTOR? I know I’m in danger of a cardiac arrest, but what the bloody hell does that have to do with anything? I was only submerged for a few minutes, so I’m okay, right?_

_I’m not just a doctor! I’m the blogger! I work with Sherlock Holmes!_

* * *

“John. JOHN?”

I look blearily up across the creek at the startled face of Sherlock, standing poised at the edge of the creek with wide eyes. 

"What happened to you?" he demanded.

"Took a refreshing dip," I remarked with some difficulty. "I'll hold this end down, otherwise you'll fall in too."

" _Idiot,_ " he said.

"Oh yes, you too," I said, still feeling the victor in an unnamed game. My hands were shaking as I planted my knees firmly on the ground, and held the end of the log down with both hands.

_Holy hell, it is so bloody cold._

Sherlock crossed like a wraith, barely touching the surface. He grabbed my shoulders and shouted loudly in my ear, "What the hell is _wrong_ with you?"

"I am not deaf," I blurted. "I did not lose my hearing. But I am losing the feeling in my fingers, so, shall we proceed please?"

“Take off your wet jumper, at least. For a doctor you’re quite dense.” Sherlock pulled off his black, wool peacoat and threw it around my shoulders, taking my wet jumper in his hand. Real wool is heavy when wet, and he looked not too pleased about holding it, but he made no effort to give it back to me. I’ve learned during my time with him that it’s best to just accept these small selfless acts and reward him by not overthinking the rarity. 

"Thank-you," I stuttered, teeth chattering. It's surprisingly thoughtful.

"Don't be sentimental. You need to get warm," Sherlock said irritatingly. "Why do you think I gave you my coat? It was not a gesture. I shall expect it back later."

I hadn't even asked anything, yet he acted as if I were asking pestering questions. 

"And it is about ten degrees below freezing, if you care to know," he added, "Though the temperature is rising and the fog is burning off, though not quickly enough for you, I'm afraid."

I protested. "I can't t-t-t-take care of m-m-m-myself." I wanted to laugh, but Sherlock looked far too serious.

"Can you?" He replied stiffly. "I shall take my coat back, then."

"No!" I exclaimed. "I do not want to die of an afterdrop from hypothermia, thank-you."

"Certainly," Sherlock said, obviously not to be won over.

"Did you find an-n-n-n-nything?"

"To be honest—I've hit, as they say, a dead end."

"Oh r-r-r-r-eally," I replied. I was waiting to share my news. I wanted to savor the moment of my having a brilliant theory while he had none at all.

"Come _on,_ " urged Sherlock impatiently. As we began to descend the hill, we could see the anxious face of the cabbie, waiting inside a warm vehicle. In a rare display of odd skill (he's always full of surprises) Sherlock put his fingers to his mouth and gave a shrill, alerting whistle.

The cabbie's head jerked up, and he stepped out of the vehicle.

"Thought ya died!" he called cheerfully, waving. "And you're late, but I waited!"

"I don't exactly have time for casual and painfully annoying small conversations or greetings," Sherlock shouted down to him, "Lend us your jacket."

The cabbie went into a tizzy. "Did the murderer try to drown ya?" he yelped, running towards us.

"Twas merely an unsound crossing over a flooded creek," Sherlock replied crisply. "Do have the courtesy not to panic."

Within moments I was happily sitting in the back of the cab. The cabbie loaned me his jacket, and Sherlock sat next to me. The cabbie revved the engine, and turned on the heat full-blast.

My teeth chattered so loudly that even when I laughed it was drowned out by the sound of my shaking jaw.

Sherlock kept checking his mobile, and whispering, "Damnit," every few minutes.

"Wh-wh-what's th' p-p-p-prob'lm?" I asked.

"No service," Sherlock said shortly. "I have to confess my utter failure to England's finest. How humiliating that I should find nothing."

I snorted.

"THIS IS NO LAUGHING MATTER," Sherlock barked, and then crossed his arms over his chest, and looked out the window as if I had insulted him.

We reached the inn quickly enough, and Sherlock jumped out of the cabbie, holding his mobile out in front of him. He ran around the yard in circles till he finally snapped "Got ya!" and put the phone to his ear.

I paid the cabbie. When I tried to return his jacket, he gave it a disgusted look and said, "Keep it, mate. Cows piss in those ditches."

"Thank-y-y-y-y-you," I said, with a cringe.

My shoes made horrifyingly hilarious squelching sounds as I hobbled towards the inn's entrance. I couldn't help but listen in on Sherlock's phone call.

"We're at Moreway Inn, yes, and I've come from investigating the site. Ah, yes, well, distractions occurred. My friend fell into a creek. He's out now—what? Out? No, he's conscious, thank-you, I meant he is out of the _creek._ England's finest, I'm sure... No, I _shan't_ stay on the line, I only found service in this spot and I'm standing in the middle of a fountain. I am going to take my friend inside the inn where it is warmer. Goodbye."

* * *

The inn had a fire in the lobby. Before going up to my room to change into dry clothes, I stopped for a moment, holding my hands near the hearth. It felt wonderful.

"Are you feeling alright?" Sherlock asked, tonelessly.

"Much better," I said, glancing at him curiously. _Do I detect a bit of worry?_

"Right," he replied. "Good."

He lapsed into the pouty silence again.

"This is unusual, for you, while you're on a case," I said, rubbing my palms together. "You are not a man of little words. Unless you haven't been out of a dressing gown for six days and eat nothing but crackers. While we're out investigating, usually I can't get you to shut up."

Sherlock stuck out his lip like a toddler.

"Oh, god, seriously," I said with frustration, "I am the one who takes the icy plunge, and I am asking you what's wrong? Naturally, of course. Whatever is the matter with you NOW?"

"I assume after this failure of mine, you do not want to be involved in my cases anymore," Sherlock said, as if depression had crawled from a pit and slapped him across the face. "I wanted to say that I would understand. It might look ridiculous for a good doctor to blog for a consulting detective who can’t..." he paused dramatically. “Who can’t even solve a simple case.”

A worry that _he_ thought I’d be ashamed of him for one small failure? I would think childhood trauma… abandonment after a bad performance, maybe… is what would lead him to think such a thing. "That's ridiculous," I laughed.

"Really?"

"Yes, it is." I repeated. "I am not so easily put off."

Sherlock gave me a very rare smile. “Well. Good. I’ve quite gotten used to you.” 

_Oh, what would he have done if I said I wouldn't be involved anymore? Throw himself into the creek?_

"So, tell me, I know _you_ believe you're a failure and all," I said, "But I don’t think so.”

“Hm, well, you’re just as capable of human error, if not more so. I may have time to disappoint you yet.”

“Yes, probably,” I said with frustration, “But maybe you let _me_ decide if, and when, I’m disappointed. You emerging from a murder investiation with no more clues than all the other professional investigators could find is _not_ what breaks my faith in you.” 

Sherlock fought off a small twitch of a smile. “It’s insulting.”

“Get used to it,” I sighed, hoping to distract him somehow. “What sort of clues do we have already?”

"The clues don't make sense to me," Sherlock admitted, letting himself frown about that revelation. “The dog returned home, instead of defending it's mistress. It was someone that the dog had met before."

“Someone with a regular commute in the area?” I offered, getting a little excited to offer my theory. I figured he’d say it any moment, but when he didn’t, I began to guess I may be the one who came up with it completely. “From the city and back?” 

"You may just have the right idea," Sherlock congratulated me, a very small hint of a smile on his face. "I _told_ you it was nice to have a second opinion. And I usually don't waste words."

I think this would be as close as he'd ever get to a compliment.

"Well," I shrugged aimlessly, "Be sure to run the DNA against the suspects, especially those who do not appear in the database."

"Yes, yes," Sherlock waved his hand. "The husband and even the frail mother. Perhaps an ex boyfriend."

"And the delivery man," I said slyly.

You could have dropped a pin in the lobby. Sherlock's mouth dropped open, and then clamped shut quickly. 

"He was on the moor," I said. "Prior to the murder. Delivery truck, nothing unsuspecting, because he _did_ delivery a package, you said so yourself that the husband signed for a delivery... so he was not out of place. Perhaps he ran into her on his way? The dog would know him, would he not?"

"If the man has the same route on a weekly basis!" Sherlock snapped his fingers. "He could have stopped his truck on the road, followed her over the hill, killed her, and simply returned to his truck. Then he went to her own home and the husband signed for the delivery and never had a suspicion.” Sherlock leapt to his feet, just short of shouting huzzah. "I do hope you fall into creeks more often," he said, in a rare example of comedic effort, "It gave you a brief moment of brilliance."

“I’m perfectly alright with leaving the creeks to their own business,” I replied, “and letting you have all the brilliance from now on.”

**Author's Note:**

> In my dream, John guessing the delivery driver was the murderer wasn't the original "twist". It was a bit nonsensical. There were funny circle-shaped prints in the mud and in the end, John guesses it was someone on A POGO STICK WHO BOUNCED AWAY FROM THE CRIME SCENE! And then Sherlock is like NAy, WATSON! Twas STILTS! The murderer was on stilts!   
> It was way too silly to use for a short story so I changed it for posting but I thought you'd all enjoy what the real ending was. Total nonsense XD Dreams are weird. I was seeing everything in my dream from Watson’s perspective and woke up gasping for breath, freezing, and totally thought that I was soaking wet. (I wasn’t, of course. It was just *that* vivid)


End file.
